


The Silver Eyed Archer

by rosegardeninwinter



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Hunger Games, F/M, Fairy Tale Retellings, Inspired by Eros and Psyche (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-03
Updated: 2020-03-11
Packaged: 2021-01-20 20:42:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21287885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosegardeninwinter/pseuds/rosegardeninwinter
Summary: There are stories about what lies out beyond town, beyond the Seam, beyond the fence, deep in the misty forest. Animals that speak in human voices. The spirits of hanged men and their lovers coming out for a ghost dance. And sometimes if you’re very, very lost, you may stumble upon the grove of an ancient goddess who plucked the moon down from the sky to fix in her eyes.
Relationships: Katniss Everdeen/Peeta Mellark
Comments: 86
Kudos: 107





	1. Match Cards

**Author's Note:**

> well, it's happening: this one is for every one of you magical, kind, creative Everlark-loving people, but especially for white-dandelion-seeds, whose infectious enthusiasm is fueling my own excitement for this story; my guess is this will be about six chapters (some longer than this, some maybe shorter?) enjoy!

Madge wants a lemon pie for Match Card Day and I tell her that if she orders lemons from 11, I’m happy to oblige. My mother would consider it a waste of money, and there’s no way I can afford out-of-district deliveries on my own, but Madge, whose family can, says she’ll get right on it, and a week later, shows up at the bakery with a boxful of ripe fruit. We smuggle it upstairs to the room I used to share with my brothers and hide it under my bed, snickering and shushing each other.  


Then we sit on the floor, our backs against my ratty quilt, and watch the swaying of the apple tree outside. It’s stormy today, windy and muggy. It’s barely noon, but the sky’s already the hue of sepia photographs, a heavy bank of cloud lazing in from the east.  


“You nervous about tomorrow? Or excited?”  


I scuff my shoes and consider how I feel. To tell the truth, I don’t feel much of anything. This is what happens to every resident of Panem when they come of age, like applying for rations or paying taxes. “I don’t know,” I tell Madge at last. “It sort of feels like the day before an exam.”  


Madge shakes her head in disbelief. “An exam, Peeta? Tomorrow is going to determine the rest of our lives!”  


Tomorrow morning, every eighteen-year-old will present themselves at the Assembly of Peace, an imposing building in town square that’s probably the least peaceful looking thing in 12. We’ll be given an official Match Card. On one side is your legal information. On the other, you can pick from a prewritten list of traits and qualities you’d like in your match. Doesn’t guarantee you’ll get someone you like, or even someone who’s compatible. I’ve often heard Delly’s mother tease “and this is how we know no one reads the back of the cards!” whenever her husband gets on her nerves. She doesn’t mean it though. Everyone knows the Cartwrights are crazy for each other. The way Delly tells it, the minute Cal Cartwright set eyes on plump, pretty Mayrose Tanner, he fell head over heels. If you didn’t know Mrs. Cartwright was from 6, you’d think they were one of those rarely approved “Approved Love Matches” and that they’d lived in the same district their whole lives.  


Delly’s parents are some of the lucky ones. There was no instant spark for my own parents. They tried, for a time, hoping that at least they’d end up like the average matched couple does, like Madge’s parents: in a comfortable state of fond, if unimpassioned, companionship. They didn’t. Our house has been one charged, terse interaction after another since before Bannock was born and has remained that way even after both he and Brann were matched up and moved out of the house.  


Bannock stayed in 12, building a home with his match down the street from the bakery. Brann couldn’t wait to hop on the train and meet his bride in 10. He’d barely said a goodbye to us at the station, giving me a brief hug and a “take care of yourself, Peet.” He’d shot a sarcastic salute to Ma and Pa, hoisted his pack, and disappeared into the throng of transfers. It’s like pulling teeth to get him to call or send a letter, and trying sets Ma on edge even more than usual. I’d be more annoyed about it if I hadn’t lived with Ma for eighteen years too. I don’t hate 12 like Brann did but at this point the only reason I’m not checking “Request Transfer” on my card tomorrow is because of Madge and Delly, who want to stay.  


Madge won’t get her request denied—the man who marries the mayor’s daughter will have to come to her—but Delly and I might. We’re at the mercy of the Board of Harmonious Matrimony. Come next month, I’ll be the husband of a girl who is probably more anxious about this than I am.  


The morning of Match Card Day arrives swelteringly hot. I’m up early, starting the ovens downstairs for Pa’s shift. I stayed up late yesterday, making the lemon pie free from my mother’s scrutiny, and today my body is feeling the fatigue. Once the ovens are prepped, I yawningly take my time washing and putting on my clothes: a neatly starched shirt and pants. I’m going to sweat right through the shirt as soon as I step outside, but it’s the nicest one I have. Pa is arranging today's specials on the counter as I double knot my boots by the front door.   


“You’ll have to tell me what you put on your card when you get back, Peeta. Have any idea what you’re looking for?”   


I stare for a second. This isn’t like my father, to take an interest in his sons’ personal lives, but I can see he’s making an effort and I’m grateful. “Uh - no, not really,” I say awkwardly. I add, trying to keep the conversation going, “Someone pleasant.”  


“That’s good. Pleasant.”  


“Pleasant,” I repeat lamely.   


“That it? Not going to request a hard worker or a blonde or — ?”   


I bite back the remark _yes, and look how well those requests worked out for you and Ma_ and instead say, “I’ll be okay with whoever they give me.” I’m determined to be.  


My father doesn’t have anymore questions, and after dithering in the hallway for a moment, I offer a feeble, “See you in a bit,” and hurry out the door.  


Delly is already at Madge’s when I get there. I present the pie with a flourish, which makes them laugh. It's an hour before we need to be at the Assembly of Peace so Madge produces silver spoons from the kitchen. The three of us sit cramped close on a love seat, Madge’s lace skirt draped over my knee on one side, Delly’s floral print over the other, to eat.  


This is a luxury. 12 is the most back water of Panem’s districts. Most people live in poverty, working long, dangerous hours in the mines. Some of us, whose families managed to establish a business despite the shifting society created by the Matching, do better, but not enough to have a treat like this every day.  


“My dad asked me what I’m going to put on my card,” I tell them.  


“Weird,” Delly comments around a mouthful. “What did you tell him?”  


“I don’t mind,” I say. “I figure anyone you get there’ll always be things you like about them … and things you have to work through.”  


“True,” Delly sighs, “but sometimes … ” She pushes a curl behind her ear with a wistful look. “Sometimes it’s fun to think about, isn’t it?” She comes out of her reverie and scoops up another bite of pie. “Pretend for a minute you could ask for your dream spouse … and you didn’t have to pick from the things on the card, Peeta. Both of you, actually. What would they be like?”  


Madge and I smile at her enthusiasm.  


“What would _yours_ be like, Delly?” Madge asks pointedly.  


Delly blushes. “Steady and earnest,” she says. “I don’t need someone daring or clever or ambitious. Someone who’d want lots of babies. Someone who’d get along with my father and my mother. It wouldn’t hurt if he was a romantic, the kind of person who’d bring me flowers … oh, and he would have brown eyes!”  


“And if he has every single one of those qualities but not the brown eyes?”  


Delly knocks her buckled shoe against’s Madge’s. “Then he’s out,” she quips. “What about you?”  


Madge bites her lip. “I think the one thing I’d want in my husband is that … that he doesn’t mind me being the mayor’s daughter. There’re people at school like that. I wouldn’t want to live with one.”  


“He won’t mind,” I say.  


“And if he does mind,” Delly adds, “Peeta and I’ll sort him out real quick.”  


“You two had better not move away,” Madge says shakily. “I don’t know what I’ll do if they assign you out of 12.”  


“They won’t,” Delly and I chorus instantly, even though it’s a hollow promise. There’s no telling what next month will bring. Lots of people want to stay in their home district, but at least half of them will be assigned away regardless. The representatives from the Capitol present it as a great diversifier, a blending of cultures, but it’s not.  


After the Dark Days, the Council of Treason was formed to decide what to do with the rebels of Panem, how to keep the districts in line. According to our history teacher, the Council put forth one idea after another until it was down to the Matching or an even worse solution (though they don’t call it that in the textbook): the Hunger Games. By a slim margin, the Matching took the majority vote. We’d all rather have it that a yearly bloodbath, but that doesn’t make the sting of being sent away from your family any less painful. Delly acts like she’s on a high today, but I know it’s a front. Two summers ago she and Thom Lowing spent a month carefully crafting their application for an Approved Love Match. I think half of 12 pitched in to write a recommendation.  


Thom lives in 2 now.  


Delly must read my troubled look because she says, “And … well, even if we don’t … we’ll write letters, won’t we? Send gifts?”  


“Absolutely. I’ll send you a sapling from Seven.”  


“A string of pearls from Four!”  


“An entire cow from Ten?” Madge puts in and my anxiety evaporates as the girls keep trying to one up each other. Their voices, one lilting and the other loud, drown out my thoughts in a familiar, comforting cacophony.  


I’m roused out of it by the clanging noise of the bell in town, striking nine. It’s time.  


Madge’s father has already left to greet our district’s representatives from the Board of Harmonious Matrimony. They’ll have arrived from the Capitol by bullet train. Mrs. Undersee is in bed with a headache and can’t accompany us. Madge goes upstairs to kiss her goodbye, and as we wait by the front door, Delly slips a hand into mine and gives a tight squeeze. I don’t have to ask what she’s thinking of, or who. I squeeze back.  


The square outside the Assembly of Peace is packed with people. It seems chaotic on the outskirts, but this process is probably the most orderly 12 ever gets. I can make out the rose colored robes of the Harmony Reps, each staffing one of twelve tables, piled with crisp stacks of Match Cards. Peacekeepers direct the crowd of eighteen year olds, nervously giggling and chattering, to fan out at the steps of the Assembly for the mayor’s speech. The family members that have accompanied them stand aways back. The girls and I wedge ourselves closer to the front.  


Mayor Undersee, looking bored, approaches the lone microphone at the top of the stairs. By his side is Ms. Trinket, 12’s Head Harmony Rep, sporting a curly pink wig. 

Their images are projected onto screens on either side of the building, and the Rep’s saccharine demeanor oozes over the crowd, somehow making the air ten times stuffier and jitterier.  


The mayor taps the mic, making it squeal. “Welcome,” he says, sounding about as excited as a student asked to read aloud about coal production. There’s something about the energy of the people around us, coupled with the drone of the recitation everyone has memorized by the time they’re thirteen, that makes me want to laugh. It’s like the most uncomfortable school dance ever, everyone breathless to see who’ll pair up for the Blue Mountain waltz … only your dance partner could be halfway across the country.  


“…a joy and a privilege for you and your chosen spouse,” concludes Mayor Undersee.  


Then it’s Ms. Trinket’s turn to bounce up to the mic and gush about what a “big, big day!” this is and how we’re all going to be “deliriously happy!” and (she doesn’t say this, but the subtext is hard to overlook) we’ll have no trouble popping out lots of good, patriotic babies for Panem. The fact that the Reps see this as a romantic occasion is a testament to how removed the Capitol is from us.  


Ms. Trinket claps her gloved hands together and shoos us to line up with her signature dreamy phrase. “May the cards be ever in your favor!”  


“Good luck,” I wish the girls.  


“Meet up at my place after for lunch?” Delly says. “Mama and Papa’d love to see you.”  


It’s a plan, we agree, then we separate to join our respective lines, organized by last names. I stand in the M - N column between a girl I’ve never met and Rigg Menninger, who was on the wrestling team the year before he had to leave school to work in his father’s grocery. We strike up a brief conversation that helps pass the time as one by one the person at the head of the line is given five minutes to fill out their Match Card and clear out.  


Delly, right at the front of the C - D line, is done first. She waves, catches my eye over the the K- L line and mouths “I’m heading home! See you there!”  


I wave back, then shuffle forward a couple more steps in line. My shirt is, predictably, soaked in the summer heat, by the time I reach the front of the line. I wipe my palms on my pants as I sit awkwardly in front of the Harmony Rep. She’s a thin, brown skinned woman, unadorned in her pink robes except for some pink sequins around her eyes. I’m taken aback as she smiles, making the sequins sparkle in the sunlight. The Rep to her left sports a clownish amount of makeup and a beleaguered frown as he slaps the cards down in front of his line. Not this woman.  


“Mellark, Peeta. Is that correct?” she inquires, checking the formal details printed at the top of the card.  


Every child born in Panem must be registered before their first birthday. That’s how Peacekeepers know, the day you turn eighteen, to show up at your house with a match registration form. You confirm your name, sex, date of birth. Then, there’s questions: **What, in your opinion, are the duties of a husband and wife? What is your view of children? How much value do you place on money? What are your career ambitions?** It’s one of a very few school trips we take, touring the cavernous filing vault at the Assembly of Peace. It’s like a mine itself, stocked with names and numbers. 

My answers are on record in there somewhere, as are my height, weight, blood type … everything.  


“Yes ma’am,” I say to the Rep.  


“Portia,” she replies. “Nice to meet you, Peeta.” She twirls a pen into my hand. “You’ll have five minutes to complete your card. If you have any questions, don’t hesitate to ask me. Ready?”  


I nod. I like her. She’s nice. “Thank you.”  


“You’re welcome,” she says, picking up a gold hourglass with sand (or crystal dust, by the way it shimmers) at the bottom. “Five minutes starts …” She flips the hourglass. “Now.”  


I don’t have to read the card. Everyone knows what’s written on them.  


**Preferred Appearance** reads the first section. Underneath are spaces for you to select skin, hair color, eye color, body type, and any other considerations you care to mention. I check the “No Preference” option for each.  


**Preferred Personality** is next. I’m about to check “No Preference” again, instead of reading through from “amiable” to “virtuous,” but at the last second, I find “kind” and put one, clear checkmark through the box next to it. Maybe no one will read it, but it’s the hope that counts.  


“Done already?” Portia queries. “You’ve got four more minutes.”  


“I don’t need them. Think of it as me giving you four fewer minutes in the sun.”  


Portia laughs. “I’ll take those four minutes, Mr. Mellark. Just a signature, please.”  


I sign and Portia stamps the card with the Harmony Seal, an emblem sporting a pair of entwined roses. It’s official.  


“You will receive your spouse assignment in a month. Thank you for participating in Match Card Day, Mr. Mellark,” she says. It’s a scripted line, but she makes it sound genuine. I nod, thank her again, and head back down the dwindling line to wait for Madge.  


“It’s done,” she sighs, when she joins me. “Now all we have to do is wait.”  


“No,” I correct cheerily, crouching down to give her a piggyback, “now we go get lunch. Come on.”  


Madge squeals as I hoist her up, her stockings locked around my hips to keep her balance, and jog away from the square. “Peeta Mellark! If you drop me, I’ll never speak to you again!”  


“Forever losing your ticket to lemon pies? I don’t think so, Undersee,” I call her bluff. “I don’t think so.”  


She grumbles in mock frustration, but soon her arms are up above her head and she's shrieking gleefully as I pick up speed. I just about about crash into Mrs. Cartwright, who waits for us on the porch of her house.  


“What am I supposed to do with you hooligans?” she laments, a grin on her round, freckled face. Turns out what she’s supposed to do is to bustle us in to settle around the table with Delly and her brother Jem and feed us cheese sandwiches and vegetable soup.  


No one says anything about the ceremony this morning. Instead, Mr. Cartwright entertains us by recounting a story about when Delly was a baby and tried to hitch the family dog to her homemade sled. It had worked, sort of, except that the dog got overexcited and ended up dragging Delly through town, the sled spinning and skidding on ice, until they crashed into the snow heap outside the butcher’s. “I tell you, I’ve never seen Rooba laugh so hard before or since.”  


Madge and I’ve heard the story about a hundred times before, but the details get more outlandish with each retelling and it’s worth it to see Delly groan at her father every time he brings it up. The Cartwright house has been a haven for me since we were five, when Delly marched us up to her parents on the first day of school and pronounced us her “best friends forever.” Days when Ma’s temper flared, when my tears didn’t move Pa beyond a pat on the head, I’d come here. Sit by the wood stove with Delly and play jacks, help teach Jem his alphabet, watch Mr. Cartwright polish a pair of new shoes for his shop, have my hair fussed over by Mrs. Cartwright. She was the one who noticed the bruises, the one who soothed a puffy black eye with water and lemon balm. She was the one who confronted my mother in the school yard, proclaiming in no uncertain terms that even if the Peacekeepers wouldn’t do anything about my mother smacking me, she certainly would. My mother remained as spiteful as ever, but she was significantly more reluctant to hit me after that.  


It’s late evening by the time the last story is told, the last joke is laughed at, and we’ve finished our cups of peppermint tea. I take Madge home and say goodnight. She gives me a long hug and I hold on tight, thinking of Thom Lowing in 2 and Brann in 10 and of sleek, speeding trains that take people away forever …  


I take a meandering route back to the square. I’m in no rush to get home. It’s empty, any evidence of the ceremony packed up and shipped out. The air is cooling. It smells of rain.  


One month and I’ll be married. I think about what Delly said. If I could have my dream spouse, what would she be like? I try to sketch her in my head. She’s wearing a gown, orange, my favorite color. There’s a crown of wild aster on her head. She wears a ring, my ring, on her left hand. I can’t picture her face or the shape of her body or her height, not clearly anyway. I decide not to. The hazy picture is enough to make my heart skip a beat. One month and I’ll have a wife. To share my bed and table. To learn about, head to toe, her history and dreams, hopes and fears. Does she like to leave the windows open? Does she take sugar in her tea? What’s her favorite color?  


I open my eyes. The moon is rising, an archer’s bow in the dusk. I inhale deeply.  


“We won’t end up like my parents,” I vow the girl who doesn’t know I exist. “I’m going to love you. I promise.”  


It’s August, but as the words leave me, my breath clouds the air. I snap my mouth shut. Cautiously breathe out again. Nothing. I must have imagined it. Still, I’m uneasy here in the square by myself. Icy shivers trickle down my spine and the overwhelming sensation of being watched overtakes me. I glance around the street. There’s nothing.  


No. There is something. There’s something on the roof of the Assembly. A shadow. Small and motionless, except for the eyes. Two gleaming points in the dark, blinking slowly, steadily down at me.  


Wait a second. Eyes? What am I talking about? It’s some sort of camera or electrical generator. The things I thought were eyes are buttons or indicators or something. And I probably am being watched, but only on a monitor by a disinterested Peacekeeper. I shake my head at myself.  


And then the shadow moves. It doesn’t rotate like a camera. Or run across the roof like a raccoon.  


One second it’s high above me, and the next, it’s materialized at the bottom of the stairs, mere yards from where I stand. Its silver eyes shine like stars.  


I don’t think about it. I run. I don’t dare look behind me all the way back to the bakery. I’m in a cold sweat by the time I slam the door behind me and stumble upstairs.  


It’s dark. My parents have gone to bed already. I need light. Safe, mundane light. I flick on the lamp in my bedroom, lock the door, and slump against it, my heart hammering furiously in my ribcage. My head is spinning.  


This morning—it feels like a year ago—I was licking lemon pie from fancy spoons with my best friends. Ten minutes ago I was daydreaming of meeting my wife. Now, I catch a glimpse of myself in the windowpane. I look out of my mind, disheveled and panicked. What was I doing, running through 12 like a madman? That thing in the square could easily have been a cat or a bird, something quick and quiet with reflective eyes, but nothing to be afraid of. Spending the morning out in the hot sun must’ve messed with my head.  


But another explanation creeps, unbidden, into my thoughts. If there’s one thing people in 12 can do well, it’s tell a story. Memories of long-gone family, tales of the time before the Dark Days … and stories that are so old no one is quite sure where they came from. Stories that would sound ridiculous in the cushy mansions of the Capitol, but here in 12, on days when the sun goes down early and the wind howls down the chimney …  


Stories about what lies out beyond town, beyond the Seam, beyond the fence, deep in the misty forest.  


“Animals that speak in human voices,” old Greasy Sae will growl, waggling a wooden spoon for emphasis in the faces of those who gather around her soup cart, “the spirits of hanged men and their lovers coming out for a ghost dance, and sometimes … if you’re very, very lost … you may stumble upon the grove of an ancient goddess who plucked the moon down from the sky to fix in her eyes…”  


If I keep thinking like that, I’ll never be able to get those precious hours of sleep I need before the Saturday shift begins. Greasy Sae’s got that Seamfolk gift of enchanting her audience, but that’s it.  


“That’s it,” I repeat, as I peel off my clothes and climb into bed. “That’s all. You’re tired and you’re not thinking straight.”  


I pull the covers up to my chin and leave the lamp on, something I haven’t done since I was a little boy afraid of thunder. Somehow, I manage to drift off.  


In my dreams, I’m standing in the square again. The thing with the silver eyes pads towards me out of the night, and inexplicably, I’m not frightened.  


I bend down to get a look at it and realize that it’s exactly what I thought it was: a cat.  


Delicate and lean, with fur the color of ink, its eyes are like stars, its tail long and feathery. It’s got to be feral, not a spoiled house pet, but its expression is sweet, rather than skittish. It pads right up to me, its nose raised curiously.  


“Hey there, kitty,” I coo. “Out for a walk?”  


I reach out cautiously, not wanting to startle it. The cat purrs, immediately nuzzling my hand. I stroke its ears and its rough tongue rasps over my wrist.  


“You spooked me earlier,” I tell it. “I thought — well I don’t know what I thought you were.”  


The cat lifts its head, cradled against my palm, and sniffs. It meows and hops away from me a couple of paces.  


“What is it?”  


Its tail twitches expectantly.  


“Did you want to show me something?”  


_Follow me._

The voice that speaks in my mind isn’t my own. It’s a woman’s voice, a whisper, soft and clear. It sends goosebumps crawling up my skin — and somehow I know it’s the cat. She wants me to follow her.  


“Where?”  


_Wherever we like._ There’s a playful quality to the words. _Come on. Chase me._  


My lips quirk. “Okay,” I say, “but you’ll have to go easy on me. I’m a wrestler, not a runner.”  


_I make no promises._  


We stare at each other for a charged second, each waiting for the other to make the first move. I grin, take one step forward, and the cat bolts.  


I sprint after her. She darts into an alleyway behind the sweetshop. “I said go easy on me!” I call after her.  


_I didn’t say I would!_ she teases, but she must take pity on me, because when I round the corner, she’s perched on a barrel outside the blacksmith’s. _Slowpoke._  


“One question,” I say. “If I catch you, what’s my reward?”  


_Greedy boy_, she says, but it sounds more like she’s praising me instead of reprimanding me.  


“Not greedy,” I say. “Only familiar with faery stories.”  


_If you catch me_, the voice promises, _I’ll give you everything._  


“Everything?” I ask, confused. “What do you mean?”  


_You have to catch me first_, she says slyly. _I guess that means you’ll never know._  


“I wouldn’t be so sure!” I say and lunge at the barrel. The cat springs at me. I feel her claws dig into my shoulder as she clips past. I whirl around and do a double take.  


The cat is gone. In her place is a fox, red as an autumn wood, but her sharp, frosty eyes are the same.  


“How — ?” I gape, but the fox only yips, haunches wriggling.  


_Come on, come on!_ she implores and I find I can’t refuse her. She leads me through town, leaping and prancing around me, always out of reach. I’m so entranced by her, I don’t realize we’re in the Seam until I notice that oil lamps in curtained windowsills have given way to kerosine lanterns on the porches of tumbledown shacks. Instead of cobblestones and neat gardens, there is dirt and old, rambling oak trees hung with liquor bottles and cans, an eerie imitation of wind chimes, clinking and creaking.  


The fox never tires. I barely manage to keep pace behind her as she flits downhill, towards the bank of a muddy creek. She clears it in one bound, but as she reaches the opposite side, she’s not a fox anymore. She’s a snowy doe, slender as a birch — and unlike the affectionate cat and impish fox, she doesn’t wait up for me. She’s out of my sight in a flash. My legs are beginning to burn with effort and there’s a stitch in my side, but I race heedlessly after her. I couldn’t stop even if I wanted to.  


I’m gasping for breath as I careen into the wide, unkempt field we call the Meadow. It’s lit up bright as noon in the unobstructed moonlight. The deer is nowhere to be seen.  


“Okay!” I shout, panting. “You win!”  


There’s no answer but my own echo. I try again.  


“You can come out now!”  


I turn a circle. On my right, the faint glow of the Seam; on my left, the forest. Around me, nothing but dead weeds and wilted wildflowers.  


“Hey! Hey, where are you? Where did you go?”  


A rational part of me tries to remind me that this is a dream, that the silver eyed thing isn’t real anyway, but the agony aching in my chest is real and it swallows up reason.  


“No!” I cry, as grief and nausea hit me in twin waves. “Come back! Please!”  


I crumple into the grass. The heat of running is sapped from my heavy limbs and it occurs to me how cold the night has become: bone cold, the kind that bites into your lungs and makes you cough. My vision begins to fog and I swipe my eyes to clear them, but the fog grows thicker. I look up.  


The Meadow is flooding. Not with water, but with a gauzy mist, billowing and swirling lazily, obscuring the landscape in every direction but one: to my left.  


The forest looms up against the moonlight, the trees silent sentinels, swaying in the wind, guarding whatever creeps among the branches and brambles. They command my gaze and crowd closer with every heartbeat. I haven’t moved, but suddenly I’m on my knees right in front of them. The air starts to ring with a shrill, haunting sound. A whistle, as if a choir of birds is harmonizing the same four notes over and over. It grows shriller and more discordant, until the trees are rattling with it, and a scream is working its way up my windpipe —  


Time stops. The trees are paralyzed and the song sharply cuts short, but these details pale in comparison to the feeling of breath ghosting past my ear, of warmth at my back, as if someone is kneeling behind me, twining strong but slender arms around my body. The sensation should alarm me, but it doesn’t. It feels … good. Impossibly good. I melt into the touch.  


“Don’t be frightened.” It’s her voice, but it isn’t in my head. It’s spoken, intimate as a caress. “It’s only me.”  


“Who are you?”  


“Come and see,” she whispers. Deep in the woods, a light flickers.  


“I — I can’t go in there,” I protest.  


“And why is that?”  


“No one ever goes in the forest. There’s wild animals and ghosts … and there’s a goddess with the moon in her eyes.”  


“That may be.” One hand gently splays over my neck, guiding my head to loll back, baring my throat to the stars. “But I promise,” she breathes, “they mean you no harm.” Lips trace a path along my jaw and before I can stop it, a moan escapes me. My invisible captor laughs, low and smoky. Her arms grip me tighter and her mouth lavishes my throat with more fervor and my stomach twists with an unbearable longing and I …  


… and I wake to the clock on the wall showing six in the morning and my mother knocking angrily on my bedroom door, scolding me for sleeping in.


	2. Caroline and Primrose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas, ya filthy animals! this chapter is a short one and for that I apologize, but I've been very busy and I really wanted to get something out before Christmas and it seemed like a natural story break; I've already outlined the next chapter and if I'm right it'll be quite a bit longer - anyway, enjoy! (it's probably rife with typos that escaped my editing pen so standby for me fixing those days after I publish it)

Raindrops chase each other down the window as I thrum my pencil absently against the paper in front of me, creating smudges. My coat hangs over the back of a chair. My shoes sit by the stairs. My mother and father are having an argument downstairs in the bakery. 

I think I’m going mad. 

My sketchbook is a frenzy of messy drawings—cat ears and fox tails, and everywhere, on every page, a pair of deep set eyes, shaded with the lightest touch of gray pencil—as I strain to recapture the images from my dream more than a month ago. Every time I try, the details get shiny and hard to look at, like sun glare on metal. I should be able to let it go, explain it away as a delusion of summer sun and nerves, but I can’t. One memory swims up through the mist: the feeling of a teasing mouth at the pulse in my neck, sending heat coursing through my veins. If nothing else, that was real. I’m certain of it. 

And then, of course, there’s — 

I flip to the back of my book; an envelope is neatly pinned to the canvas cover. 

— this. 

The girls and I had agreed, long ago, to open our results together. On September first I met them behind the schoolhouse. We’d settled ourselves in on the dry grass, like we used to when we were little, in a circle with our knees touching. I could feel mine trembling against Delly’s.

“Okay,” Madge had said. “Ready?” 

“No,” I said, throat tight. 

“Me neither,” Madge said, voice as pinched as the envelope she held between her thumb and forefinger. 

I didn’t try to comfort her. It’d be no use. If I spoke, I’d break down. Tears were racing down Delly’s red face and she coughed as she wiped her nose on the hem of her skirt. She sat up, wringing her letter like a rag. 

“Let’s get the damn thing over with,” she hiccuped angrily. “Together.” 

I counted down from five, but on “two” Delly’s quaking fingers yanked hers apart right down the center. She snatched up the document that fluttered to the dirt and scanned it, then shrieked, clapping a hand to her mouth. 

“What?” Madge and I yelped in unison. 

“I’m staying! I get to stay!” Delly sobbed, buckling over into my arms. 

“Dells,” I sighed in relief. “Oh, Dells.” 

“And look,” Madge laughed shakily, holding up the grainy picture of Delly’s future spouse. “‘Cato Garison’ has those brown eyes you wanted.” 

I thought of Thom Lowing’s boyishly earnest face and found it hard to picture Cato Garison, sporting a hard set jaw and a frowning brow, next to my friend. But that didn’t matter. Delly was staying; that was the only important thing. 

“Madge?” I asked, still stroking Delly’s hair. “What does yours say?” 

She’d unfolded her letter, made a surprised noise in her throat and held up the picture. I gaped. 

“Darius? Really?” 

“I know,” Madge said. “I wouldn’t have thought, after Opal . . . ” 

Darius, 12’s youngest Peacekeeper, and the only one you can hold a decent conversation with, was matched before. His wife, Opal, was from 1, and looked like a gust of wind could blow her away. The birth of their only child came in the dead of winter. It wasn’t exactly a surprise to anyone when she couldn’t pull through afterwards, but Darius was devastated at her loss. The jovial, joking man who used to do his patrol humming bawdy tunes made his rounds in a grim daze. He came back to his old self again, but it took a long time. 

It’s not unheard of for people to apply for rematching, but Darius was the last person I’d think of doing it. 

“It’s just for Tilver, I bet,” Madge mused. Opal’s son, a freckled strawberry-blond, is just five years old. 

“I don’t know about that,” I encouraged. 

I had to admit, they made a smart match, the Peacekeeper and the mayor’s daughter — and more than that, they’d get along. Darius would make Madge laugh, keep her light. She’d make his home happy again and be a great stepmother to Tilver. 

“I think you’ll be good together.” 

Madge heaved a sigh and a hesitant smile gentled her features as she studied Darius’s profile. “He is very nice.” 

“Handsome too,” Delly added. 

“And you already know him,” I said. “He understands how things work in Twelve. Neither of you’ll have to learn new customs or anything.” 

“That’s true,” Madge said, smile becoming steadier. 

Delly lifted her head from where it was pillowed against my shoulder. “Okay, Peeta,” she said. “Last one.” 

I took a deep breath, steeling myself for the worst. I imagined a world in which the girls and I got to stay together, to meet each other’s spouses, watch each other’s families grow. I told myself there was no chance of that world becoming real. That would be too perfect. Odds defying. 

“May the cards be in my favor,” I muttered and broke the wax seal. 

**[Citizen File Not Found] [Return to Jurisdiction of Origin] **

I’ve written the Board of Harmonious Matrimony three times, asking if I could resend my information. Madge sent a complaint via her father’s personal line. Hers and Delly’s weddings came and went.

At the end of September, we received a single document, perfunctorily informing us that a **[Mellark, Peeta - 18]** was not and had never been in their system. That was it. No plans to add me to the register, no spouse, no follow up, nothing. 

Ma was livid, convinced I’d done something incorrectly, telling me in no uncertain terms that I still had to leave the house and forge my own way in the world, spouse or no. I don’t think my father would have minded me living with them, but it was more than that. Marta Mellark would not be the only woman in 12 with an unmatched child. If the Capitol wouldn’t assign me, she would. 

“There’s plenty of decent girls at the school,” she’d say over dinner, clicking her tongue impatiently, then rattling off the names of a dozen or so in the grade behind me, while my father hummed in tacit agreement. Tonight though, after I had to remind Ma that Violet Whitehill was matched last year and the proud mother of newborn twins to boot, Pa finally spoke up. 

“What about Caroline’s daughter?” he offered. “Persimmon . . . or — ”

“Prim?” I balked. Primrose Abberford is a tenderhearted slip of a teenager, a few grades behind me. She lives with her mother, our apothecary, on the outskirts of town. 

“I don’t want our family associated with that woman,” my mother said sharply. 

I pinched the bridge of my nose. This quarrel is as old as I am. It’s no secret that my father would have married Caroline if she would have let him. She’s five years younger than he is, but they grew up together, something Ma can never put out of her mind. 

“Marta,” my father sighed, “Caroline’s a fine — ” 

“Just ‘fine,’ Farl?” my mother said, pursing her lips sourly. “To hear you tell it Caroline Abberford hung the moon itself.” 

“Not this again, Marta.” 

“And besides — our son and her daughter?” Ma said, cool and pointed. “Same blonde hair, same blue eyes. Why, they’re practically siblings, Farl.” 

I rose from the table, taking my plate and cup. “I’m going up,” I said, but I didn’t need to. My mother and father glared at each other, ignoring me entirely. 

I’ve heard the rumors, but I don’t believe them. My father might not love my mother, but he’s loyal. 

Though even I have to admit it’s the rumor about Caroline and her daughter that makes the most sense. The others are . . . 

Well, compared to them, the idea that Primrose might be my sister seems far more likely, though Pa would never suggest I marry her were that the case. 

People say Caroline’s mother, Lissy, was a witch. “Smoke comin’ up the chimney an’ turnin’ into a flock of black birds,” is one report. “Talismans under her clothes, all bones and feathers,” is another. “Mixing up herbs that have no earthly right being in regular medicine,” and “a grimoire stowed under the floorboards of her kitchen.” 

People say that on Caroline’s eighteenth birthday, she vanished into the woods. People say she didn’t return until after the first snowfall, when she walked out of the trees, hair long and loose, feet barely making a sound against the frostbitten earth. As if a young girl had gone and a ghost taken her place. A ghost, save for the rosy cheeked baby wrapped in white rabbit’s pelt, cradled to her heart. 

No one bothered mentioning to the Board of Harmonious Matrimony that Caroline Abberford was alive and matchable. The stigma was part of it. The fear of what Lissy or Caroline herself might do if anyone suggested matching was the greater part. At least, that’s what’s whispered around trash can fires at the Saturday market. Some people say Caroline had a lover in another district and ran away to be with him. Others say something more unusual was afoot. 

“Y’all didn’ see her,” the old goat man is known to say, “Didn’ see her comin’ out the trees. Eyes all freaky an’ glowin’ silver.” 

I snap my sketchbook shut as Ma comes into the living room. Her eyes are angry and glassy and look like she’s trying not to cry. She shoots me a sidelong glance. I hesitate for a moment, wondering if I should say something to comfort her. But the moment passes, and with a dismissive twitch of her hand, she marches down the hallway to her room. 

“Think I’d better sleep on the couch tonight, Peeta,” Pa says wearily as he trudges up the stairs after her. 

“Take my room,” I say. “I want to draw some more. Might be up late.”

Pa considers, then slumps over to sit next to me on the couch. “Don’t listen to your mother, alright?” 

I nod. Pa’s hand ruffles my hair. “Goodnight, Peeta,” he says. “Don’t forget to put the fire out before you fall asleep.”

“Yes, sir.” 

For some reason I feel a lump swell in my throat as he leaves. I sink further into the ratty cushions and stare at the ceiling. The click of the clock is the only sound in the house, ticking the hours steadily darker and colder … 

There’s water damage above my head, mildewy cracks making criss-crosses across the paint. I prop my sketchbook against my chin and breathe in the sharp smell of old paper and charcoal. At eleven, the rain lets up. The fire is low but the moon is rising, almost full. At midnight, I decide I want a blanket. I rise from the couch with a grunt, stretching my back and — 

The window slams open. The faded curtains whip in the wind. Ma’s nice vase, balanced on the writing desk, topples over and spills water all over the bakery’s finance records. The fire dies, not gradually, but instantly, like a snuffed candle. Smoke curls in frantic wisps away from the grate. The room is plunged into black, except for the light of the moon, streaming in sparkling beams like sunlight does on a golden afternoon. 

_Come to me. _Her words are gentle and melodic, but insistent. I feel them snake around my ribcage and give a firm, irresistible pull. I take a step towards the window, another. _Come to me. _

I grasp the windowsill. The wind toys with my curls in a way that can only be described as purposeful. A scent floats by me. It’s like honey, but sweeter; like woodsmoke, but richer. I can’t place it, but it’s intoxicating. I suck in a breath, trying to taste it, but all I taste is the acrid, sooty taste of 12. I swipe my tongue over my lips in disappointment.

_Come to me._

Cautiously, I lean out into the night. I think of the promise I made to the girl I thought I’d be matched to. I look up at the moon and make another promise.

“I’ll come to you,” I say. “Show me how. Please.” 

There’s a crackling sound behind me. I turn around to see that the fire is once again burning quietly in the hearth. Ma’s vase is safely upright on the desk, on which there’s not a drop of water in sight. The moon is pale and mundane. The curtains hang lifelessly. 

“What — ?” 

Three loud knocks sound below. I dive to put on my coat and shoes, then take the steps two at a time, goosebumps prickling my skin, and fling open the bakery door, the welcome bell clanging as I do so. 

Primrose Abberford stands on the porch, barefoot. She smiles when she sees me. “You’re late,” she says pleasantly. “Mama was expecting you at midnight. But don’t worry.” She takes my hand. “There’s still the witching hour ahead of us.”


	3. The Edge of a Precipice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> remember three months ago when I said Chapter 3 was coming soon? yeah, sorry about that; I’m also going to take a page from Beth’s book of wisdom and stop promising this is only going to be six chapters long because it is probably going to be longer than that (shorter chapters, perhaps, but more of them) because I can't speak for where and how the muse wants to break things up and I'm going to stop trying :D

Caroline Abberford is waiting outside her apothecary, underneath a sign painted with violets. She holds aloft a lantern. Her diminutive frame is bundled against the chilly predawn in a woolen shawl and her hair is loose. The porch swing sways back and forth behind her, rusty chains jangling like chimes. My hand in Prim’s gives an involuntary jerk, a heat flush of panic shooting up to my scalp. Prim glances at me. 

“Don’t be frightened,” she tells me. “Mama will know what to do. She’s been having dreams about you.” 

I try to steady the trembling I feel in my jaw, but now I have no trouble believing either of them could be a witch. 

“Primrose,” says her mother, a note of admonition in her tone, “You’ll frighten the poor boy worse.” 

“I didn’t mean to,” Prim says pleasantly. 

“I know you didn’t,” Miss Abberford says, wrapping her arm around her daughter’s waist and holding her close, pecking the crown of her head. “But next time, best wait until our guest feels at home to talk of such things.” She studies me, crinkling the beginnings of crow’s feet at the corners of her eyes. They’re robin’s egg, not silver, but they’re bright and searching, as though she’s looking right into me. “Peeta Mellark.” 

“Yes ma’am,” I get out.

“You look like your father,” she says. “You’ve got his kind mouth…” She touches my chest, several rings glinting in the light from her lantern. Battered copper set with crudely cut stones. “And his longing heart.” 

“But he’s like you, Mama, isn’t he? Something’s calling to him. Something wild.”

Miss Abberford fixes her daughter with an expression midway between exasperation and amusement. “You really are too clever for your own good, my evening flower,” she says. “Or anyone else’s good for that matter.” 

“But she’s right,” I blurt. “I — I need your help.” Miss Abberford turns back to me, frowning. It’s not an angry frown. It’s attentive, curious, concerned. It’s a look my own mother’s never given me and seeing it on Caroline Abberford’s face makes my stomach ache. Makes me want to trust her. Makes me ask, “Can you help me?” 

The apothecary gives the lantern to her daughter and cups my face in her palms. 

They’re soft and smell of lavender and oranges. 

“Of course we can help you,” she murmurs. “Of course.” 

She sweeps her thumbs over my skin and tilts my head this way and that, very gently, surveying me. Prim holds the lantern steady as she watches, fascinated.

“I have just the thing you need,” Miss Abberford says at last. “Come inside.” 

I’ve been into the shop once or twice before to get burn cream or to pick up cough syrup. Herbs hang over the counter in bundles, and wicker baskets of bandages hang below. There are shelves stacked with an assortment of both local remedies in corked jars and expensive medicines sent from the Capitol with fancy etched labels. A set of stairs leads up into the living space, the bannister wrapped around with chains of flowers. Prim takes the flight at a sprightly flit. Miss Abberford’s shimmering rings motion for me as she follows after her daughter. The soft brush of her feet against steps is the only indication she’s not floating as she does so. 

I stand gripping the bottom rung of the railing. “What are you doing?” I murmur aloud, half to myself, half to the presence that has sent me here, chasing after answers in the dead of night. I don’t expect a reply and I don’t get one. 

So I take the stairs. When I reach the top, I take a sharp breath. Though the apothecary and adjoining house are built like the bakery (probably by the same architect, more concerned with function than beauty), they couldn’t be more different. Our living room is neat to the point of being stale: formal family furniture kept meticulously dust free, from the lace doily on the back of the couch to the pictures on the mantle. This room is bursting with haphazard life. There are candles everywhere, in every color: purple, red, yellow, green. I don’t remember seeing their glow coming from the windows outside. I must have been very distracted to miss it though. The mantle is brimming with them, wax dripping down the brick. Tin cutouts of the moon and stars dangle from the ceiling, casting spots of light over the faded rug in front of the hearth. A couch and two chairs crowd around the fire, all worse for wear, with mismatched quilt patches to keep the stuffing in. A mangy orange cat is curled up on one of the chairs, looking so comfortable and warm I have to resist the urge to sink down next to it as I cross to the breakfast nook. Prim is pouring from a kettle into a mug for each of us. 

“What is this?” I ask warily as I peer into my mug. It’s a dark brown liquid; a heady, savory smell rises with the steam. 

“It’s just tea,” she says. “Chamomile and catmint.” 

“Oh.” I take a sip. It’s good. I take another and feel my nerves begin to subside. “Thank you.” 

“People think I spend my days cooking up potions,” Miss Abberford says. “But I’m afraid there’s more of medicine to me than of magic.” 

“But there — there is magic then?” 

The apothecary hums in assent, as though this isn’t particularly shocking information. “There has always been magic,” she says. “Even in Twelve.” 

“What kind of magic?”

“It’s strongest in the wild places.” Prim props her elbows against the table. “My grandmother was from Four, where the sea is. The ocean called to her. It taught her how to sing enchantments.” 

“But there’s no ocean near Twelve,” I say. 

“No,” Miss Abberford says simply. “But there’s the woods.”

Everything comes rambling out. “The day of the ceremony, in the square — well, not the day—the night, afterwards. I was walking home and I saw something. I thought it was a camera but it wasn’t. It was some sort of creature with silver eyes. I dreamt about it. That night I dreamt it was a cat. Or sometimes it was a cat. It was a fox too. And a deer. And it had a woman’s voice. She was talking in my head and she wanted me to chase her into the forest and I think … I think I wanted to. But then I woke up.” 

I’m not making any sense. My words are tripping over each other and I’m half winded, but Miss Abberford doesn’t say anything. Her face is placid as she listens. Prim seems positively gleeful as I jabber on. 

“I thought it was the heat or something but then — then my spouse assignment didn’t come. I wrote to the Board but they said I’d never been in their system. I know I’m in their system. I’ve been in there since I was born, so there must be something … something …” 

“Something out there wants you,” the apothecary finishes. “I know.” 

“How?” 

“It’s like Primrose told you,” Miss Abberford says. “I’ve dreamt it. Three nights now, the same dream. I see you stand where I stood. On the edge of a precipice, high in the hills, above the swaying trees.” 

Goosebumps skitter up my skin, but with every passing second and every impossible claim, I find my doubts vanishing. Something out there wants me. I think of how buoyed my heart felt, chasing the beguiling little shapeshifter through town, how stricken I was when she vanished, how welcome I felt in her embrace … 

“The woods… or the wild … or whatever. It wanted you? Like this?” 

She considers. “I wanted the woods before it wanted me. I called out to it and it—he, I should say—answered.” 

“He?” 

“The ancient god of the woods,” says Miss Abberford. “By turns a stag or a bear or a great bird with wings to shake the trees.” Her gaze becomes wistful and fond. “I called him Jack.” 

“He’s my father. The wood god,” Prim states proudly. That I could have guessed. 

“But you said the voice you heard was a woman’s,” Miss Abberford ponders. 

“Yes.” 

“Mama,” Prim gasps suddenly. “It’s her, it’s her!”

“Who?” Miss Abberford and I ask in tandem. 

“It’s the silver eyed archer!” Prim cries. “Mama, it has to be!” 

Dawning realization breaks across Miss Abberford’s face and she gives a breathy laugh of agreement with her daughter. “The silver eyed archer,” she repeats, as though it were obvious. 

“Who’s the silver eyed archer?” 

“I never saw her,” Miss Abberford says. “In all the months I spent with Jack. But he told me about her, the little wood goddess who calls him her father. She’s a young spirit, but powerful.” 

“She’s a huntress,” Prim adds reverently. “She carries a bow, silver as her eyes. And her arrows never miss their mark.”

“And what do her arrows do?” I press. 

Miss Abberford shakes her head. “That’s all we know.”

“Peeta.” Prim is leaning all the way across the table. “It has to be her calling to you. It all makes sense.” She claps her hands and coos happily. “The silver eyed archer’s in love!” 

“Prim,” says her mother, somewhat sharply. “We don’t know that.”

“Oh Mama,” sighs the teenager, looking as stubborn in her enthusiasm as a five year old, “we do know that. Why else would his match not have come? If she’s anything like father, why else would she call him?” 

Miss Abberford opens her mouth to protest, but Prim goes on, “Father saw you once and fell in love. The archer did too. I know it.”

“Why?” I say aloud, glancing between them. It makes sense, as much sense as any of this can make, that a forest god would fall in love with Caroline Abberford, beautiful and gifted, with magic in her veins. But me? _Maybe ancient forest spirits have a thing for blonds,_ my cynicism suggests. I’m confused, upset almost. “I—I’m nothing like you. I’m a baker’s son. My parents wouldn’t listen to a call from the beyond if it came by telephone, let alone in dreams.” 

“That’s probably true,” says the apothecary, “but we’re not talking about them. We’re talking about you.” 

“What should I do? I can’t just — I can’t leave Twelve.” 

“Can you not?” 

“I don’t even know where to go.” 

“Do you want to go?”

That’s it. That’s what this comes down to. Do I want to go? To leave behind my mother and father, and worse, to leave Delly and Madge. But it’s what would’ve happened anyway, isn’t it? If my spouse assignment went through as it should have. I try to conjure the wife I imagined for myself in the square—a girl in sunset orange with dainty flowers in her hair—and I try to make myself ache for her like I ache for the halting memory with silver eyes. 

“If I don’t go,” I say. “What happens?”

Prim’s joyful expression drops into one of stunned disappointment. “But — ” Her mother holds up a hand to stop her and this time, she minds. 

“Nothing,” says Miss Abberford. “You can reapply for matching and the Board will mysteriously stumble upon your file and set you up with a spouse in a week. If the wild senses it isn’t wanted, it’ll leave you be.” She traces the rim of her mug, contemplative and maybe a little sad. “It’s kind that way.”

* 

I want to regret my decision. But I find, standing outside the schoolyard on a drippy, foggy morning to wait for Madge and Delly, that I can’t. I yank the collar of my coat up higher against the chill as I watch students of every age from five to seventeen file into the building. Some of the younger ones bid their parents goodbye hastily and hurry to find their favorite teacher; some of the older kids hold hands with friends or sweethearts, gossiping in hushed tones. Lunch pails swing by sides, books are toted up by chins. I was in their shoes a year ago, arm in arm with the girls who are as good as my sisters.

This is going to be the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. 

Madge arrives first, Tilver in tow. Darius’s son is absolutely enamored of his stepmother, and skips along beside her, swinging her hand. Madge spots me and grins, kneeling beside her son. “Can you say hello to your Uncle Peeta?” she says and Tilver waves at me. 

“Hi Uncle Peeta!” he shouts. I wave back, my heart swelling and breaking all in one instant. Madge gives Tilver his lunchbox and adjusts the collar of his shirt. 

“Alright,” she says, touching his nose, “What are we going to do today?”

“Be good,” Tilver dutifully repeats. “Learn lots.” 

“And?” Madge prompts. 

“And give Momma a big hug!” Tilver proclaims. He flings his chubby arms around her neck, then scampers away to class. 

Madge watches him go with adoration, then straightens. “Hi,” she says with a peck on my cheek. I notice a elegant pendant hanging from her neck.

“You’re obviously miserable with your match,” I say, indicating it. 

“Desperately miserable,” she says. She touches the pendant. “It’s rose quartz. Birthday present.” 

“It’s beautiful,” I say, then add, because who knows when I’ll be able to say it again, “You’re beautiful, Madge. Happiness looks good on you.” 

Madge goes pink with gratitude. “Thank you, Peeta. I wish — ” She stops.

“What?”

“I wish you could be … I don’t understand why … ”

“Madge,” I say. “About that — ”

“Hey, don’t start without me!” Delly has a burlap bag slung over her shoulder, probably for market. She doesn’t sport quartz pendants like Madge. That wouldn’t be like her new husband. From the brief interactions I’ve had with Cato Garison, he doesn’t seem the type to bring her flowers or jewelry, but Delly doesn’t mind. “He’s not as scary as you think he is, Peeta,” she told me the week after they were married. “Hotblooded, sometimes, but I’m more than a match for that.” She is. I think she might even like it. There’s an inflection in the way she says “_hot_blooded” that’s impossible not to read into. It’s nothing like what she said she wanted before the Matching, but to see them taking a break from working on the roof of their new house, sharing jug of water between them and amiably planning their next project, I trust her when she says she’s glad it turned out this way. 

“You’re both coming apple shopping with me after this,” Delly says with an affectionate squeeze of my arm. “What did you want to talk about?”

“Dels,” I say softly, trying to let her down gently. “Madge. I — I have some news. About my spouse assignment.” Madge’s face crumbles and Delly’s smile starts to fade. “It’s good news,” I hurry to say. “But it’s … hard … news. I — um. Well, here.” 

I reach into my pocket, where a creased piece of paper bears the name and information of one **[Vox, Lavinia - 18 - District 1]**. My spouse assignment, arrived at last. Out of district. I pass it to Delly, then shove my hands in my coat pockets, feeling the autumn chill with a sudden acuteness. Madge crowds into Delly’s side to read the paper, her eyes flicking and scanning over it once, then twice, then a third time, as though she’s not processing it right. Delly reads it once, then thrusts it into Madge’s limp grasp, and stares at me, her jaw clenching and making her chin tremble. 

“No,” she says, hoarsely, angrily. “No. I — _no_, Peeta. Dammit, no!” 

“When did this come in?” Madge whispers. “What — when are you leaving?” Delly makes a pained sound, like she’s been punched in the gut. My throat constricts, clogged up with phlegm, and I almost can’t get the rest out. 

“Yesterday,” I say and suck in a breath. “First train … tomorrow morning.” 

“I mean,” Madge says. She’s crying. “I … I know this could’ve happened a month ago … and I’m happy … that … ” 

“I’m not,” Delly snaps. “I hate it. I hate this. I hate her.”

“Don’t,” I say. “No, don’t. This isn’t her fault. It isn’t anyone’s fault.” 

“Delly,” Madge says, clutching her arm. “Delly, I don’t want this to end with us being angry.”

Delly stares balefully at her, but when she opens her mouth to retort, her chin wobbles. “I don’t want it to end at all,” she says. “It was supposed to be the three of us forever and ever.”

“I’ll write,” I promise weakly. “I’ll write and I’ll call every week.” I think of the gifts we said we’d send each other. District 1 is the most luxurious of the districts. I could send them diamonds and furs if I wanted. I don’t want. They wouldn’t like it. “I’ll send you photos,” I say instead. “I’m sure it’s beautiful there.” 

“Nothing’s as beautiful as here,” says Delly sourly. I have to agree. To an outsider, it’s a ridiculous thing to say. 12 is grimy and tumbledown and overrun with weeds and scraggly trees. It’s nothing like the photos of other districts in our textbooks: not like 4 with its turquoise ocean or 9 with its golden fields of grain, certainly nothing like the Capitol, with its snowcapped mountains and soaring buildings. Though maybe those pictures are embellished to make everywhere else you could be shipped off to nicer than here. Maybe in other districts, they paint 12 as a quaint, charming village. But even that would be missing its real beauty: the meadow with its carpet of hearty, scrappy wildflowers. The deep blue foothills that tumble over each other to reach the horizon. The rambling, untamed forest, thick with brambles and kudzu and old, mossy trees. And more than that, the people. The special ragtag collection of hardworking, stubbornly optimistic people who make this place their own. 

I haven’t packed my bags yet and already I’m so homesick I feel like throwing up. I can’t stand it.

“I don’t want to see anymore,” I plead aloud. 

“Alright,” comes Miss Abberford’s voice. The fog creeping at the edges of the scene now crowds my vision, blotting out the schoolhouse and the road, Madge and Delly. I cling to the illusion of their faces for one heartbeat longer, then let myself snap back to reality. 

There’s a glass jar open in front of me, and from it, thick black smoke wafting into my face. I should be coughing on it, but I’m not. Its smell is pleasant, floral and strong, like jasmine. As I open my eyes, Miss Abberford corks the jar, snuffing the last tendrils of the enchantment from my mind. 

I blink. I’m sitting at the apothecary’s table. The orange cat has hopped up onto the back of Prim’s chair and is surveying the proceedings with disinterest. I slump back in my chair. Prim pours me some more tea. I take it and gulp it gratefully. My mouth is parched. I feel like I’m floating, an uncomfortable, dizzy feeling.

“Is that … so that’s … what my parents and … that’s what my family will see? They’ll think I’ve gone to One?”

“Yes. They’ll wake tomorrow and all they’ll remember is that you left yesterday on the train. They’ll miss you, but somehow they’ll know you’re going to be alright.” 

“They’ll be alright too?” I fret. “Madge and Delly.” 

“They will feel as if the memory were true. Loss and heartbreak, yes, at first. But then comfort, and sooner rather than later.” 

“And if I want to come back? Will I be — ? Will she —?”

“She’ll let you,” Prim pipes up. “The archer will let you go. My father didn’t try to make Mama stay. He understood her place was here. Taking care of people.” 

“But … people think … so poorly of you. Why not stay?”

“I’ve never cared what people think,” says Miss Abberford serenely. I feel a new sense of respect for her. “Only that people get the help they need, whether they’re grateful or no.”

“I’m very grateful,” I say earnestly. “Thank you.”

“I know you are, sweet boy.” 

Prim quietly slips her hand into mine and gives a tight squeeze. I squeeze back. For some reason the contact is grounding, like a tether runs down from her arm to her her shoes to the earth, centering me. Maybe that’s not so surprising for this half wood-goddess of a girl. In that moment, I make up my mind. 

“So what do I do?” I ask her mother. 

“That’s for you to decide.” 

“No,” I say. I grip Prim’s hand tighter. “I mean, how do I find the place . . . the place you went? How do I find the silver eyed archer?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if we don't get to Cupid!Katniss by next chapter, you can all throw things at me, and I know at least a few of you will *blows kisses*

**Author's Note:**

> to be continued! leave a comment if you like; comments are hot chocolate to the writer's soul! oh, and come talk to me on tumblr! I'm under the same username and I've got lots of aesthetic silver eyed archer content under the tag #tsea - until next time, darlings!


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